


all our costliest treasures

by jugheadjones



Series: Merry Christmas, Baby! [3]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Christmas, Domestic Violence, Family Feels, Found Family, Holidays, Homelessness, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-16 02:36:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16945371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jugheadjones/pseuds/jugheadjones
Summary: FP Jones is nine years old and has never had a Christmas tree. His parents can't afford one, especially this year, with his father out of work. His best friend Fred Andrews has a huge Christmas tree, a loving family, and a Flying Arrow toboggan to unwrap on Christmas Day.The only thing the two friends have in common is that neither of their fathers believe in handouts.But both of their mothers believe in Christmas.





	1. Friday, December 21, 1984.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bisexualfpjones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisexualfpjones/gifts).



> merry (early) christmas to briana!!! written for day 5 of the riverdale reindeer games: family traditions! 
> 
> tw for gendered slurs, domestic abuse, child abuse etc.. fp senior's a piece of work we been knew

Most of FP’s friends have Christmas trees in their trailers, but FP’s family doesn’t get one. FP’s Ma says that’s because FP’s Pop doesn’t have two nickels to rub together this year. The three of them live in trailer 31, on the far side of Sunnyside Trailer Park, and twice last month, the bailiff had come knocking on their door trying to throw them out because Pop hadn’t paid the rent. Ma had grabbed FP and hid under the bed with him both times. But she says he won’t come around again until January, because you can’t put families out of their homes at Christmas. 

Ma’s name is Linda, and it’s ok if he calls her that, but he likes Ma better. His Pop’s name is Forsythe, same as his. When FP was a little kid, Forsythe Senior used to go to work every day at the factory, and then the bailiff stayed away for the most part. Then the factory gave a lot of people pink slips and told them never to come back to work. So Forsythe Senior had to do odd jobs to make money. At first, he did hard work that made his back sore. Then he hurt his back and started working with the Southside Serpents. 

The Southside Serpents are a bunch of big men who ride bikes and leer at FP when they see him. Linda doesn’t like them at all, and she and Pop fight about it whenever they come around. Sometimes FP’s Ma takes needles to make her feel better, and they fight about that too. This year, she isn’t going to, she says, and FP thinks she means it this time. 

FP thinks in secret that the reason they don’t have a tree is that Pop hates Christmas. He gets mad when Linda talks about it, and when she hangs up paper chains above the fireplace mantle. He yells at the people on TV who talk about the baby Jesus, and he turns the TV off when he sees Santa Claus drinking Coca-Cola. 

FP hates Christmas too, but he doesn’t say that to anyone. 

He likes Christmas up until the last day of school. At Riverdale Elementary, they spend the week cutting out paper snowflakes and doing spelling tests with Christmas words. FP can’t spell very well, but he likes the new words, nestled on the red and green paper next to clip-art pictures. Last week, they had learned  _ evergreen _ and _ carolling  _ and  _ Hanukkah. _

Almost everyone had got that last one wrong, except Mary Moore. Her family lit a menorah in their window every December. She’d done a presentation on it for extra credit and passed around the chocolate coins her parents gave her for  _ gelt _ . Fred had taken a big bite of one, and Mary had stomped her foot and said he was going to HE-DOUBLE L. But Fred got a big fat zero on his spelling test, so FP wasn’t sure he knew what Mary had said. Fred was always too busy daydreaming to study. 

The reason FP doesn’t like Christmas is that Riverdale Elementary closes up and he has to stay home. Then he’s near his Pop all day, and it’s too cold to go out and hide under the porch steps at Alice’s trailer. Sometimes he gets to play at the park with Fred, only his Pops and Fred’s Pops don’t like each other. So Christmas makes him feel lonely. 

School had ended for good earlier today, and FP had said goodbye to Fred at the corner with his heart feeling sadder than usual. Fred’s family lived in a big white house with a window, and they’d had a Christmas tree in their living room all week by now. Fred was nine like FP, but he’d been nine for a whole three months already, and sometimes it showed. But sometimes it felt the other way around, like FP was old in his heart, and Fred was still a little kid. 

“We’re going to have so much fun on winter break,” Fred was saying, kicking up big clouds of powdery snow with his boots. FP walked carefully, because the snow liked to soak into the holes in his sneakers. “We can go sledding and have a big snowball fight, and go ice skating on the river. My mom will make us hot chocolate with peppermint sticks. And I swear I didn’t peek, but I was looking for my ice skates in the garage and I saw my mom bought me a Flying Arrow!” Fred’s voice booms with excitement. FP wishes he was that excited. 

FP had dragged his feet all the way home. He always felt that way when other kids talked about what they were getting for Christmas, even though he knew Fred would share. Fred always shared. 

Linda was making dinner when he walked in the door and shut it quick, to keep the cold air out. FP could smell the stew from the minute he was inside. He hurried over to the counter and leaned on it. Linda passed him a big piece of bread, and not the end stuff either: it was white and fluffy and soft. FP shoved it in his mouth. 

“Don’t tell your dad,” she said, her eyes winking smiles at him. She knew FP wouldn’t tell. Linda looked down at the linoleum floor, which was wet and soggy from FP’s wet socks.  

“Forsythe Junior, you’re getting the floor wet,” she said sternly. Linda was the only person who could call him Forsythe and not make it sound ugly. She made it sound gentle. Still, FP corrects her. 

“My name’s FP now, Ma.” 

“FP,” Linda corrects herself. She bends down with some paper towel and mops up the melted snow. She throws the soggy paper towels in the trash. “Take your wet stuff off. We live in a trailer, not a barn.” 

“There are holes in my shoes,” FP pipes up, stripping off his soggy socks. He had been hoping that his Ma would say that she’d take him to the store - FP hated shoe shopping, but he liked going downtown with his Ma. Instead, Linda just looks sad for a moment, like she might cry, and he regrets saying anything. 

“We’ll see what we can do,” she says in a pinched-up voice. “You need boots.” 

FP throws his arms around her and kisses her on the cheek. Linda wasn’t very tall, and FP was creeping up on her in height. He was almost as strong as her, too, even though his Ma could still crack his bones together when she hugged him. She smiled, and he knew she understood that the kiss meant  _ don’t worry.  _

He’d wanted to tell Linda about Fred getting a Flying Arrow for Christmas, but decided to keep it a secret. All the kids in the trailer park used garbage can lids for toboggans. Once Alice had cut herself on the lip of one and bled all over like a stuck pig. Her dad had come over to the trailer later, hopping mad, screaming himself crazy about how it was FP’s fault. Senior had yelled at Rodger Smith to get off his fucking porch, and then he’d turned around and yelled at FP for what felt like hours. His mom had been out shopping, so Senior had grabbed him by the arm and squeezed it so hard FP thought it was going to break. 

Senior only ever hurt him when Linda wasn’t home, which meant FP was safe most of the time. But sometimes he had bad dreams about his mom disappearing, and then his dad hurt him all the time. He always woke up shivering, with sweat running down the back of his neck. But Linda always seemed to know when he had a nightmare, and would rock him and tell him stories until he fell back asleep. 

Right now it’s just FP and his Ma, so everything is peaceful. FP takes a big piece of cardboard out of the recycling bin and puts it on the kitchen table. He carefully traces each of his shoes with a marker and uses the big kitchen scissors to cut them out. The cardboard would fill up the holes and keep his feet mostly dry. He sniffs the air, inhaling the smell of stew. Cooking wasn’t always Linda’s strong suit. Sometimes she burnt dinner, or gave up entirely and ordered takeout. But she could make a good stew with canned veggies and the ends of the meat they got from the butcher. FP forces the scissors through the cardboard and hopes his dad doesn’t come home in time for dinner. 

Just as he’s tracing his right shoe, there’s a knock at the trailer door. FP jumps a little, but he knows Senior wouldn’t knock. It must be someone else. 

Linda looks quizzically at him. “Are you expecting someone?” 

FP shakes his head. A small frown of worry crosses Linda’s face before she shakes it off. He knows she’s thinking about the bailiff. Slipping off of the kitchen chair, FP follows his Ma to the door. He’s almost as big as her, and the bailiff isn’t a very big man. If he tried to hurt Linda or throw her out, FP could stop him. 

But it’s not the bailiff, or at least not the usual one. On the trailer doorstep is a big, black-haired man in a crisp winter coat and earmuffs. He’s holding a green and red shoebox with a bow on top. 

“What is this?” Linda asks, surprised. She wipes her hands on her jeans. “We didn’t order anything.” 

“Courtesy of the Riverdale Children’s Aid, Ma’am,” says the man. He has a fake jolly voice and bushy eyebrows. He looks at FP with shifty eyes. “We’re distributing them all over the trailer park.” 

He holds the gift out to FP, thrusting at him like he’s in a hurry. FP takes it and turns the red and green box over in his hands. Written across the top is _ Boy, 7-8,  _ even though FP had just turned nine. He hugs it to his chest, just in case Linda saw the mistake and made him give it back. 

The man with the bushy eyebrows tips his hat at Linda. “Have a nice day, ma’am.” 

He walks across the parking lot back to his truck. Linda closes the door. 

“Can I open it?” FP asks. The box is weighty, special in his hands. His heart is doing cartwheels. 

“I suppose so,” says Linda. Her cheeks have gone pink like she’s angry. FP doesn’t understand why. 

FP rips the box open. Inside is a gray and blue sweater that looks itchy, a candy cane, and a packaged toy that looks like a pair of red binoculars. Next to the binoculars are two white paper disks with tiny pictures around the outside. They look like film negatives. FP holds one up to the light and squints at it. The picture is of a tiny sea turtle. 

“Let me show you,” says Linda, thawing a little, and gently takes the binoculars out of the package. She puts the disc in the top and presses down on an orange lever. The toy makes a  _ chunk  _ noise, and she passes it to FP. He squints through and sees the turtle again, suddenly large as life in front of his eyes. “It’s a ViewMaster. I had one when I was a little girl.” 

FP presses down on the lever and the picture changes. Now he’s looking at a serene beach, with an ocean of green-blue water and a palm tree. The image is so detailed that he can see the crest of the waves on the water. A red-and-yellow parrot is flying in the sky. Best of all, everything outside of the image is pure black. If he focuses hard, he can pretend he’s there. 

“You don’t have to play with it,” says Linda. Her eyes are frowning again, her arms folded. “It’s just from a charity. It’s probably for littler kids than you.” 

FP’s finger hovers over the orange lever. He presses it again, slowly. A grey sea-lion is sitting on a rock, wet from the water. Reluctantly, he raises his head back to his Ma, fingers curled tight around the plastic. Linda is examining the wool sweater, smoothing out the collar with her fingers. She holds it out to FP to try on. 

The sweater pulls too tight across his back, but if he hunches his shoulders in, it fits. Ma scowls when he does that, so he stands up straight again. 

“It fits,” he lies. Sometimes you have to tell a little white lie to get your ViewMaster back. Linda sighs and hands it back to him. 

“Wash up for supper,” is all she says. Her cheeks are pink again, and her eyes have gone watery and ashamed. FP can’t place why but he gives her a hug anyway, tries to make it a real bone-crusher. She hugs him back, trapping him to her shirt so that he can feel the imprint of her necklaces pressing into his chest. Linda wore beautiful crystals around her neck, tucked under her shirt collar when she cooked. FP liked running his hands over the crystals, but his father always looked at him sternly when he did. If FP ever put a necklace on, he thinks Senior would strangle him with it. 

He gets lucky: Senior is still at the Whyte Wyrm with the Southside Serpents by the time dinner is served. (FP’s known since second grade that Whyte and Wyrm are both spelled wrong, but he’s never heard a grown-up say anything about it.) Linda puts a bowl of stew away for Senior, and she and FP split the rest right down the middle. FP gets another fluffy piece of fresh bread to wipe his bowl clean. They split a wrinkly apple for dessert, and Linda sprinkles brown sugar in a bowl so they can dip it. Everything tastes better with brown sugar on it. 

Linda cleans the trailer after supper, and FP looks in the ViewMaster. He clicks through both wheels of pictures, staring at snowy mountains, gold palaces, and spraying fountains. His mind keeps drifting to Fred, and what Fred would think of them. He lingers for a long time on one picture: a serene mountain lake with a little cottage and a smoking chimney. A tall pine tree takes up most of the left side of the frame. 

He’s still clicking through the pictures when Linda finishes vacuuming and sits down on the couch with her box of needles and thread. Two of FP’s pairs of pants had had holes in them, and she sews them both up lickety-split. When Linda was a teenager she made her own clothes: tie-dyed skirts and colourful shirts with bells on the shoulders. FP’s seen them in pictures. 

FP takes a deep, deep breath, putting the ViewFinder down in his lap. 

“Ma?” he speaks up quietly. Linda looks up at him.

“Yes, sweetheart?” 

FP steels himself for disappointment, crossing his fingers in between his thighs. “Can we have a Christmas tree?” 

Linda’s face falls. 

“A small one,” FP adds quickly. 

“Not this year,” says Linda, turning back to her sewing. Her brown hair swings down and falls in her face, like a curtain. 

“Why?” asks FP, his palms damp. The ViewMaster slips between them, sinking down into his lap. 

“Your father doesn’t like them. They make a mess. Especially if you don’t water them.” 

“I’ll clean it up. And take care of it.” 

“I’ll think about it,” says Linda, which means no. FP feels tears rising behind his eyes, and he quickly puts the ViewMaster back to his face. Only babies cried, especially over something like a tree. 

Click. A snowy village on a mountain peak, steam rising in 3D from the chimneys. 

Click. A waterfall, tumbling over a cliff’s edge, full of mist.

He carries it to bed with him when the time comes, huddling under his quilt on his felt mattress, trying not to shiver. In the dark, he invents stories to go with the pictures. He and Fred were trekking through the jungle, feeling the spray from the waterfall, stoking the fire in the cabin. They were explorers in all the forests and palaces and deserts in the world.

He falls asleep with the ViewMaster on his chest, and when he wakes up his father is home. He and Linda are fighting in the living room. FP feels out in the dark for the plastic toy, relieved when his hand closes around it. He lifts it back to his eyes, pressing down on the level, and the picture of the cabin blurs into a redwood forest. His father’s voice drifts through the paper-thin door. 

“So the little fuck wants a tree, too bad! You think I have money for a tree?” 

Click. The waterfall, tumbling into nothing. FP’s eyes are tired from the early hour. He imagines stretching a hand out to touch it. 

Linda’s voice is sharp as icicles. “Oh, I know you don’t have the money. I have half a mind to find a job myself.” 

“If it’ll stop your bitching, I’m all for it.” He can hear the clatter of bottles, the slam of them landing on the counter. FP sits up, holding the ViewMaster to his thumping chest. He takes a deep breath and slides his feet over the edge of the mattress. 

“And what are we going to do for food?” Linda’s voice is getting very high-pitched like it always does when she’s mad. FP walks slowly to the doorway of his room and hovers, listening. “Your son is fifteen pounds underweight. The school nurse sent a note home.” 

“And that’s my fucking fault?” 

“Yes, it’s your fault!” 

FP swallows hard and pads down the hallway toward the light, still cradling the toy. He sees his parents at last: his father tall and dark and still wearing his boots on the clean floor, stinking of beer. His mother is in her robe, her hair loose and long around her cheeks. 

He doesn’t remember what Linda said to make Senior hit her. All he knows is that his dad strikes out with his hand and a resounding slap fills the air, the most awful sound he’s ever heard, and then there’s a red welt on his Ma’s cheek, already beginning to bruise. FP screams and runs in between them, and Linda screams at him to go back to bed, and Senior grabs FP’s hurt arm with a growl that sounds almost like an animal. 

“IS THIS WHAT THEY GAVE YOU?” he bellows, and snatches the ViewMaster out of FP’s hand. FP’s busy clutching his mother’s middle and barely misses it. Senior throws the toy on the ground and stomps on it. 

“Forsythe!” Linda yells, her cheek swollen and purple. The crush of plastic under his feet sounds like FP’s heart splintering. 

“No son of mine is taking handouts!” yells Senior, and digs his heel down until the plastic explodes. He grabs the biggest piece of it, the paper wheel still sticking out like a crushed bone, and throws it in the stove. 

“Forsythe!” Linda is breathless with tears. “It’s Christmas. Let your son have a Santa Claus, for Fuck’s sake.” 

Senior looks right at FP. “THERE IS NO SANTA!” he bellows, making them both flinch. 

Linda takes a step toward him, dragging FP with her, and Senior holds up his hand in a fist. 

“I’ll hit you again, bitch,” he says, and kicks the side of the stove with his boot. Linda stops, and her hands come down to clutch on to FP’s. FP is shaking. Linda’s thumb rubs circles on his hand, anxious and frightened. 

Senior curses both of them, loud, and then stomps out of the trailer with his beer clenched in his hand. FP goes limp against Linda’s back, crying a little. Linda scoops him up in her arms, even though FP’s getting as big as she is. She kisses his forehead and his hair, and all over his cheeks. 

“Let’s go to bed, baby,” she says, her voice shaky, and carries FP back up the hall. One of their neighbours is yelling at them from outside, asking if they know what time it is. Linda yanks the curtains down so they cover the window.  

FP curls into a ball on his bed, feeling younger than his age, and Linda joins him, yanking the covers high up over them both to make a fort. She opens her arms and FP falls into them, curling up to her chest and shaking. Linda brushes his hair with her fingers, humming in his ear until his breathing calms. Then she tells him all her Christmas stories: about Scrooge and the ghosts, about Santa Claus and the reindeer, about the girl who cut her hair to buy her boyfriend a watch and the boy who sold his watch to buy his girlfriend a comb. FP doesn’t think he’ll ever fall asleep, but he must at last, because one moment his mother is brushing his hair and speaking softly in his ear, and the next he’s waking up in a puddle of blankets, alone. 


	2. Saturday, December 22, 1984.

It doesn’t feel like Saturday morning. Usually, on Saturday morning, FP wakes up feeling excited. He wolfs down his cereal and runs over to Fred’s house, and they play basketball or video games or run around outside until lunch. But today everything is moving sluggish and slow. His eyes are sore and achy from crying. He doesn’t think he could play basketball if he wanted to. 

He’s not the only one who’s sore and achy: Linda is holding a bag of frozen peas to her face, which is puffy and red. The place where Senior hit her is a dark purple bruise. It makes FP’s stomach tie up into a tight little knot, and his hands curl into fists. Linda made him a bowl of oatmeal, but he isn’t hungry. He holds his hands in fists instead and then uncoils them. He thinks about punching Senior right in the face. 

“Eat up, FP,” says Linda, but she’s not eating either: just stirring it to get the lumps out. FP obediently puts a mouthful of oatmeal on his tongue. It makes him feel like barfing. 

Linda straightens up suddenly, her mouth a thin line. Her eyes are hard and determined. “If you eat up, we can get a tree.” 

FP’s heart leaps, but immediately sinks down to his shoes like a lump of coal. He knew if they got a tree his father would be mad. “I don’t want one anymore,” he lies. 

“Don’t be silly.” Linda’s voice is bright and full of cheer, despite her bruised face. Her smile makes FP feel like smiling. “You and I will pick a nice Christmas tree. And your father will never have to know.” 

“What do you mean?” demands FP, but Linda just smiles her secret smile and points at his bowl. FP looks doubtfully down at the lumpy instant oatmeal. It looked like an awful lot to eat. But his Ma is counting on him, so he tries. 

While he’s eating, Linda walks around the trailer, putting things into a bag. First, she goes into her bedroom and fills half of her suitcase. Then she goes into the closet and the fridge and puts a bunch of things in a grocery bag. When FP’s done eating, they go into FP’s room and she fills the rest of her suitcase with FP’s clothes and pyjamas. Then she and FP pull on their hats and mittens and coats at the front door. FP slides his feet in his shoes with the cardboard in the soles, relieved when they aren’t soggy. Linda holds his mittened hand as they walk down the steps into the daylight. With her other hand, she’s carrying the bags. 

“I’ve had enough with the yelling!” Their neighbour, Eddie Smalls, has come out on his porch to holler at them. Linda ignores him. “Night after night! I can’t take it anymore! I get migraines, you know! My kids can’t sleep!” 

Linda squeezes FP’s fingers and keeps walking. She puts FP in the front seat of their old car and buckles him in. Then she puts everything she was carrying in the back. FP twists around to look at it. He recognizes his Ma’s suitcase, and a box of ornaments is poking out the top of one of the bags. He feels a little more excited. Maybe they are going to get a tree. 

“I’m talking to you!” yells Eddie at their backs. “I’m calling the cops next time!” 

It’s an empty threat. People in Sunnyside Trailer Park don’t like the cops. They mind their own business, Linda says. She comes back around to the driver’s side and slams the door. 

“Let’s find some Christmas music on the radio,” she says, her eyes lighting up in a smile. FP thinks his Ma looks beautiful, even with the bruise. She clicks through the radio stations and finds one playing We Wish You A Merry Christmas. She turns it up until they can’t hear Eddie Smalls yelling. 

“Good?” she asks, looking at FP. 

“Good,” says FP, and smiles. 

They drive for a long time, up close to where the Greendale-Riverdale border is, and the big wooden RIVERDALE sign. At one point the radio cuts out, but Linda gives it a big wallop with her hand, and it starts working again. Linda parks the car right next to the sign and holds FP’s door open so he can get out. 

“We’re going to walk from here,” she says. 

FP looks around, confused. He knows that there’s a Christmas Tree lot in the other direction, near Pop’s Chok’lit shop and the train tracks. But he doesn’t see one anywhere around. 

“Where are the trees?” he asks, sliding out of the seat and into the cold. Linda’s smile gets brighter. 

“All around us, silly!” She spreads her arms wide and spins around in a circle at the edge of the forest. “Don’t you smell them?” 

FP takes a deep breath. The forest smells like cold air, like maple sap and pine. He nods with his eyes closed. Linda’s hand lands on his toque, ruffling his hair under it. 

“Most people cut down a Christmas tree to put it in their house, and then the tree dies,”  she explains, lifting the box of ornaments out of the backseat. “But we’re going to choose one that’s still living, and then it will be here for years and years to come.” 

FP opens his eyes and stares at his Ma, his eyes full of wonder. Linda was always like that. She was smarter and kinder and more thoughtful than anyone else. And she loved nature and animals. Linda didn’t even let Senior kill the mice that scurried in their cupboards, leaving droppings and eating their pretzels. FP feels invigorated, new. He stretches up on his tip-toes inside his leaky sneakers and turns his face up to the sky. 

Linda carries the ornaments as they walk through the woods, following the path alongside the river. If the box gets heavy, she doesn’t complain. There are lots of maple trees here, but some pine trees too. FP’s head keeps swivelling from left to right to see them all. Once he sees one that’s so tall and thin it almost touches the clouds. Another is leaning all the way over like a bow. 

They come to a clearing in between two patches of wood, and his perfect tree is there. It’s short: just a little bit taller than he and Linda, so that either of them could theoretically reach the top on their tip-toes. Linda walks in a circle around the tree, her eyes glowing and happy, leaving the cardboard box on the ground. FP drops to his knees and rifles through it. It’s full of Linda’s paper chains, strings of popcorn and cranberries, and hefty plastic ornaments from the dollar store. At the bottom of the box is a heavy golden star. 

Quick as they can before their hands get too cold, they strip off their mittens and start decorating. Linda hangs the popcorn while FP hangs the paper. They both hang the ornaments, but FP gets dibs on all the red ones. Finally, Linda lifts FP up by his waist so he can put the star on top. FP had been worried about it being too heavy, but for nothing: the top of his Christmas tree ends in a single, perfect, sturdy point. 

There are no lights, but they don’t need them. In the sun, the ornaments sparkle and glitter. The red and green chains look festive and bright against the snow. The gold star on top makes it even more beautiful. It looks like a picture. 

“Look!” yelps FP, and points to a thrush which had alighted on a branch, pecking at the popcorn strand. 

“Mother Nature is sending her own ornaments,” says Linda. She squeezes FP in a hug. “Isn’t this a nice tree?” 

FP considers this. Fred had a big ornament shaped like a bird: he’d shown it off in class as his Advent Three present. But FP’s was better: real and living and breathing. He hugs Linda back, not taking his eyes off the bird. When it flies away it does it all in a rush, so that it’s there one moment and gone the next. 

“I wish I had some birdseed,” says Linda. “We’ll bring some up next time we visit. He might land in your hands if you’re really still.” 

FP considers this, looking down at his fingers. 

“Oh!” says his mother, and scoops up the cardboard box. She makes FP’s hands into a cupped V and then pours the crumbly popcorn bits that had fallen off the chain onto his skin. “Hold out your hands, and be patient.” 

FP is patient. So patient that his toes start to turn into blocks of ice. Then a bird comes back, zipping onto his hand so fast he almost jumps and scares it away. This one is yellow and black and white, fluffy like a cat. It pecks a piece of popcorn off of FP’s thumb, tickling him. Then it hops into his palm. Its little feet tickle FP even more, but he stays still, not even breathing as it pecks his palm clean. Finally, the bird ruffles its feathers and flies away. 

“He sat in my hand,” says FP awed. 

“He sure did.” Linda is picking the empty box up from the snow. “Maybe he’ll tell all his friends where the good food is.” 

FP waits patiently, but no more birds come to sit on his hand. They flock to the tree, though. Soon there are four living, breathing ornaments at the same time. 

Linda is getting cold. “Let’s go back to the car,” she says. “We can come back to visit whenever you want. Just ask me.” 

FP’s sad to leave his tree, but his hands were beginning to freeze. The walk back to the sign feels shorter than the walk out. Linda swears when the car growls to life and the gas gage stops halfway between Full and Empty. 

“That deadbeat couldn’t even fill the car,” she says. Then she reaches impulsively over to FP and squeezes him in a hug. 

“I love you,” she says, her voice thick, and FP holds her back, surprised. 

“I love you too, Ma.” 

Linda smiles and sits back up, wiping a tear from under her eye. “Let’s go,” she says. 

Main Street is dressed up for Christmas when they get there: the store facades beautiful and shining gold. Christmas lights twine around every lamppost, tied in big red bows when they get to the top arch. With a soft frosting of snow over the sidewalk, it looks like a picture on TV. Speakers attached to the lampposts pump out Christmas music, and shoppers hurry from store to store, buying last-minute gifts. FP leans in close to the window, breath fogging the glass, so he can read a sign in the bookshop: 

**_SANTA CLAUS PARADE_ **

**_THIS SUNDAY_ **

Linda steers the car up to Al’s Pawn Shop and parks it over the sidewalk. Then she opens FP’s door and lets him jump down into the snow. She walks into the pawn shop with FP and plunks her wedding ring down on the counter. 

“Whatever you can give me, Al,” she says. 

The man named Al is tall and muscular, with a flat, square face. He unfolds a pair of glasses from the chain around his neck and squints at her wedding band through them. He looks up at FP’s Ma. 

“Real gold?” 

“Real gold,” Linda affirms. Al names a number, and she purses her lips. 

“Don’t waste my time, Al.” 

Al names a slightly higher number. Linda thinks about it, tapping her foot next to FP’s. Then she pulls the necklace out from around her neck. It isn’t a healing crystal, like usual, or even the locket she wore sometimes with dried flowers inside. Instead, a silver ring is hanging there with a tiny diamond on the end. She thumps it down on the counter, chain and all.

“How about for both?” 

“Engagement ring?” Al asks, looking it over, and Linda nods yes. He snorts. “You bringing me a dress next?” 

“If you want it,” says Linda seriously. “Just let me get it from my mother’s house in Jersey City.” 

Al huffs and wheezes, which doesn’t seem to mean yes or no. He goes away for a moment and comes back with a small stack of bills. FP watches it with wide eyes. Al licks his thumb and counts them all out on the counter. 

“Thank you,” says Linda, and snaps them into her purse faster than FP’s eyes can follow. 

She marches out of the pawn shop with her head held high, dragging her son behind her by the hand. 

* * *

They go to a cafe next, and Linda buys FP a cup of hot chocolate with whipped cream. He blows on it so it will cool, making tiny ripples on the surface. Linda has a cup of tea, but she isn’t drinking it. Her eyes are moving all around the room, looking at everyone and everything. Her foot taps nervously on the floor. 

“Ma?” FP has to tug her sleeve to get her attention. The hot chocolate makes his tummy feel warm. “Can we go look in the store windows after?” 

Linda just nods, distracted. “We need gas,” she mumbles, her hand tracing the zipper on her purse. “And we’ll need food. But it’s Christmas. There are enough soup kitchens. And maybe Grandma-” 

“I thought Grandma didn’t like us,” says FP. He shifts on the chair. The hot chocolate had awakened a pit in his growling stomach, and he’s realizing that it’s far past lunch. A few ladies at the next table are staring at them, and Linda puts her head down, covering her bruise with her hand. 

“Doesn’t matter,” she says. 

“Ma?” FP lifts a few strands of her hair. “Why are you hiding?” 

Linda laughs and sits up again, and FP relaxes. He likes it better when his Ma laughs. Linda stands up and picks up her tea, pulling FP up by the hand. “Let’s go look in the windows,” she says. “But only look for now. Bring your hot chocolate.” 

He and Linda walk up and down Main Street until their feet hurt and their drinks are cold. One window has a toy train that snakes all around and around. FP keeps dragging Linda back to watch it again and again. 

When they get back to the car, Linda pulls the rest of the loaf of bread out of the grocery bag, and they devour it like hounds. When the last crumbs are gone, FP climbs back into the front seat. Linda slides in behind the wheel and starts driving, and FP reaches for the radio. 

“Just for a bit,” says Linda. 

They listen until  _ Good King Wenceslas  _ comes on, and then Linda turns it off. She turns the heat down too, almost to zero. FP sneaks his hands into his armpits to keep warm. 

Linda drives to a lot of different buildings. Some are brick and have Christmas wreaths on the door. Some are gray and look just like a school. None of them have signs for FP to practice his spelling. 

When Linda comes out of the fourth building she has a deep frown on her face. She gets in the car and slams the door, letting a bad word slip out. 

“What happened?” FP asks.

“No room at the Inn,” mutters Linda, and eyes the fuel gauge. The pointer is closer to E now, but just a bit. She hooks her hands around her elbows and holds herself in a hug. “No room anywhere. Imagine turning away a woman who’s face looks like this.” 

“What Inn?” asks FP. He rubs his sleepy eyes, wondering when they’re going home. It’s beginning to darken out, and the Christmas lights are on. His Christmas tree feels like a week ago, instead of that morning. 

“I guess you don’t know that story.” Linda turns the heat up a bit and pulls him into her lap. “Remember how some people believe in God?” 

“Do we believe in God?” 

“I don’t. But you can, if you want.” 

FP considers it. “Ok.” 

“Some people think God came to earth as a little baby, named Jesus. And Jesus’ Ma was named Mary. Mary was a woman who got pregnant before she was married.” Linda’s voice wobbles just a little, and FP looks at her in concern. She smooths down his hair and keeps going. “Everyone thought that was bad. That was before they found out the baby was Jesus. So Mary went all over the place looking for somewhere to have the baby. But everyone said ‘no room at the inn, no room at the inn’. So she had a baby in a barn instead. That’s the story. I probably didn’t tell it very well.” 

“It was good,” says FP politely, although he’s heard better. Linda laughs a big belly-laugh and he feels relieved. 

“Come on,” she says, throwing the car into drive. “Let’s just drive until the gas runs out. And then I guess we go home. I’m not sleeping in a parking lot with you.” 

FP glances out the frosty window of the car door. There’s a park at the end of the street, its swing set and merry-go-round dusted with snow. He recognizes the swings: it’s the park where he and Fred like to play baseball in the summertime. He breathes an O on the window and wipes it away. 

“Can we go see Fred?” he asks, wiggling his toes in his shoes to keep them warm. “I told him we could hang out today.” 

Linda looks at him carefully, for a very long time. She looks like she’s doing math in her head. 

“Maybe you can have a sleepover with Fred,” Linda says finally. “I’ll ask his mama, okay?” 

“What about you?” 

“What about me?” replies Linda. She turns the car around in a driveway and heads down the street toward Fred’s house. 

“Are you going to come?” 

“Maybe for a cup of tea. But let’s give them a call, first.” Linda stops the car next to a payphone. FP tries to get out, but she locks the door. “Stay here. I need a smoke, and I don’t want you breathing it in.” 

Linda is in the phone booth for a long time, smoking and talking. She leaves the engine on, so FP’s warm. He looks in the rearview mirror at the suitcase Linda had brought. FP hadn’t realized they were running away from home. But maybe they were. His stomach feels nervous and jumpy, and he suddenly feels wide awake. 

Boy, would Fred be excited. Fred was the kind of person who could make anything exciting. He would probably think it was a great adventure, like something in a movie or a comic book. FP isn’t so sure. Part of him wants to be at home, in their trailer, on his felt mattress, huddled under his quilt. Part of him wishes he had never asked for a tree, and that the Children’s Aid man had never shown up on their doorstep. 

FP closes his eyes and tries to remember the pictures from his short-lived ViewMaster. Click. The sea turtle with the kind eyes. Click. The cabin with the smoking chimney. Click. The ocean; jewel-bright and capped with waves. 

Somewhere in there, he must have fallen asleep, his head sagging low against the cool, snowy, window, but he doesn’t notice himself fading until he’s already out. 


	3. Sunday, December 23rd, 1984.

The snow is falling lightly in big, puffy flakes from the sky. It piles up on the windowsills and dances up against the glass when the wind blows. On the roof of the house, the chimney blows white, curly smoke out into the air, while the Christmas tree beams gold and red light out of the front window. Outside, the mercury on the thermometer has dropped all the way down to the twenties. But inside the house, the heater keeps the kitchen warm as toast. 

It’s Sunday morning, and FP is sitting at the Andrews’ kitchen table with his best friend, both of them in their pyjamas. They’re writing letters to Santa, to be hand-delivered to the helpers who jogged in the Santa Claus parade with mail sacks. FP has never seen the Santa Claus parade before, and his knees feel loose and wobbly with excitement. He keeps sneaking glances at the kitchen clock to see if it’s time to leave yet. 

“Aren’t you going to write one, Oscar?” Fred asks. His older brother is sitting across from them, digging into the sandwiches Mrs. Andrews had brought home from church. Usually, Fred and his Ma went to church together. But today FP had slept over, so Fred got to stay home. 

“Aw, I don’t believe in - ow!” Oscar yelps suddenly in pain, grabbing his leg. Bunny is staring fiercely at him across the table. “You can add a P.S. for me,” Oscar says quickly, sinking down in his seat a bit under his mother’s gaze. “Tell him I want a new hockey stick. If he has time.” 

Fred importantly adds the P.S. “How about you, Mom?” 

Bunny reaches out and affectionately ruffles her son’s hair. Fred’s Ma was beautiful, with soft blonde hair and blue eyes. She was older than Linda by a few years, but they looked the same age. “Your Mom doesn’t want much. I’ll tell him mine in person the next time I’m at the mall.” 

“Okay.” Fred turns to face Linda. “Mrs. Jones?” 

FP’s mother is sitting a little apart from them, staring out the window at the falling snow. She seems lost in a trance. FP stares at her and aches somewhere deep that he can’t place. 

Fred tries again. “Mrs. Jones?” 

She turns to face them, a smile on her lips, even though her eyes stay far away. “Yes, Freddie?” 

“I can add a PS. for you on my letter to Santa,” Fred says sweetly, the polite voice he always saves for adults. “If you tell me what you want for Christmas.” 

His pen hovers above the page, ready to take it down. Linda looks at FP, and FP looks back at her. He thinks he can read his Ma’s mind for a second. His Ma is thinking that the things she wants for Christmas are too big for Santa. But then she shakes her head, like shaking water out of her ears, and gives Fred a smile. 

“You can tell Santa I’d like a new pair of gloves,” she says, and Fred dutifully squeezes the last line under the rest of his messy letter. FP’s page is still mostly blank. He chews on his pen. 

He already knew it was too much to ask for more than one big thing. He’d thought about asking for a train like the one in the store window, only that was babyish and it would break easily if his Pops got mad. He wasn’t going to ask for a new ViewMaster, either. His Ma was right, that was for little kids. And he was scared of what Senior would do if he saw him with it again. 

He prints carefully, in his best writing. 

**Dear Santa,**

**Please bring me a toboggan so I can go sledding with Fred.** (toboggan was one of their spelling words, and he’s pretty sure he got it right.) 

He chews his pen before adding: 

**And a pair of new boots.**

**FP.**

“Would you like me to spell-check it for you?” Bunny asks when she sees FP’s finished. FP says no very politely, because toboggan was the only hard word. Then he seals his letter up with a lick so his Ma can’t read it and be sad that they didn’t have money for a toboggan or boots. 

FP had woken up that morning curled up in Fred’s bed with his clothes still on. Fred was already downstairs when he woke up, but he could tell that they’d slept beside each other, because the other side of the bed was all rumply and the mattress was warm. Also, Fred’s favourite toy was in the bed: a stuffed dog named Flops. FP had grabbed him and given him a big hug for good luck. Flops smelled like sweat and peanut butter, which was how FP knew he wasn’t dreaming. 

At first he’d thought that Linda had left him at Fred’s house all alone, but when he’d sprinted downstairs his Ma had been on the couch, fast asleep. Fred and his big brother Oscar were out shovelling snow. Artie was at the office, getting some last-minute work done so he wouldn’t have to come in tomorrow, no matter what. And Bunny was already at church for Advent Sunday, because she was in charge of lighting the candles.

FP hadn’t asked how long they got to stay at Fred’s house. He was worried that if he asked Linda would make them leave. But they were definitely going to the parade all together. When FP and Fred found out they were so excited they jumped up and down and hollered at the top of their lungs. 

The car ride there is so exciting that FP’s face hurts from smiling. Linda and Bunny are in the front, and FP and Fred sit in the back. Every house they drive by has lights galore. Some of them have snowmen in the front lawn, wearing scarves and hats. As they pass the school hill, FP sees kids flying down on toboggans. 

Main Street, like Fred’s house, was in the nice part of town. Once Linda had heard Alice calling it that, and she told them both nowhere in town was better than anywhere else. FP wasn’t sure. Anywhere that wasn’t the trailer park sounded pretty nice to him. And Fred’s neighbourhood was especially nice: clean and neat and just like a Christmas card.

They parked behind the barbershop and joined the long line of people lining the sidewalk. Fred and FP pushed to the front of the curb, crowding in between some big-looking boys so they could see. Linda stayed behind FP, but she put her hand on his shoulder so he’d know she was there.

From the moment the parade started, FP was mesmerized. There were marching bands and ribbon-twirlers and a real horse. There were floats from Pop’s Chock’lit Shop and the grocery store, and the church, and the used car lot. A real fire engine drove past with the sirens going. Kids dressed as elves sprinted up to him and put miniature candy canes into his hand until his pockets were bulging with them. A man in a big coat that said GREASY ED’S handed him a Santa hat with a pompom on the end, and FP crammed it eagerly over his cold ears. Both he and Fred dropped their Santa letters in a mailbag with NORTH POLE stamped on it. 

Finally, Fred let out an ear-shattering cry. “LOOK!” he hollered, pointing down the street, where the largest float was turning the corner. FP looked. Everybody looked. The final float is a bright red sleigh hung with all kinds of twinkling lights, so tall that it seemed to float above the crowd. A pack of pretend reindeer were harnessed to the sleigh, frozen still with their hooves in the air. Christmas music poured out of speakers hung between the reindeers’ flanks. 

“How come Santa doesn’t bring his real reindeer, mom?” FP hears the boy next to him ask. 

“Ssh,” says the boy’s mother, behind them. “He doesn’t have anywhere to put them up, that’s why.” 

Santa. Everyone in the crowd seems to believe. Their belief hangs in the air like something real. FP feels his heart thudding faster and faster in his chest. His mom grips his shoulder tight and he reaches up to hold onto her hand. 

Santa is sitting upright in his sleigh, in a thick velvet suit with white fur on the collar and cuffs. His white beard is soft and curly, and he has a deep red hat sitting on top of his head. Fred had told FP once that only the real Santa came to the Riverdale parade. Watching the fat, jolly man before him, FP thinks Fred might have been telling the truth. How could a pretend Santa yell “Ho! Ho! Ho!” and “Merry Christmas!” so convincingly? Where would he get a suit that looked so thick and luxurious and  _ real _ ? 

Santa waves left and right with his gloved hands, turning around in the sleigh every few seconds to make sure he doesn’t miss anyone. FP’s mouth feels dry as he comes nearer. When Santa reaches their section, he turns to face Fred and FP’s side of the road. He leans over the side of the sleigh, and his blue eyes twinkle right down at FP. 

“Merry Christmas, young man!” 

Linda pokes him in the back. “That’s you,” she says, excited. “Santa said Merry Christmas to you, FP.” 

“THANK YOU!” FP suddenly hollers, too late. Santa is facing the other side of the road now, waving. His heart is going _ thump-thump-thump _ in his chest. The two big boys are looking at him with jealousy. FP’s frozen toes suddenly feel warm. He thinks he could dance all the way home. 

When Santa and the reindeer go by, all that’s left of the parade is a few men in red vests and a trail of glitter and steaming horse puckeys. But the excitement doesn’t end there. Piloting their boys through the shoving crowd, Linda and Bunny drag Fred and FP into the nearest shoe store. FP has to try on four different pairs of winter boots. When he finds the pair that fit best, the salesman scoops them up and puts them in a big box loaded with tissue. 

Linda tries to get out her wedding ring money at the cash register, but Bunny stops her. 

“I won’t hear of it,” she says, pulling out her silver credit card and flashing it to the cashier. Then the box goes into a bag and the bag is in FP’s hand, and he has a new pair of winter boots. He feels dizzy with excitement. All he can think about is how he won’t have to cut out cardboard insoles at the dinner table anymore. 

Still, something nags at his mind all the way home in the car. He leans over in the backseat and whispers it into Fred’s ear, quietly. 

“My dad says Santa doesn’t exist.” 

Fred gives him a troubled look, but whispers back, his breath warm on FP’s earlobe. “We can ask my Dad later. He’ll tell the truth.” 

Linda and Bunny drop Fred and FP off at home with Oscar, and then the two women go out to do more shopping. Fred is full of energy. He drags FP down to the basement and does flips and cartwheels off the couch. FP does a somersault so he won’t be left out. 

“Pew-pew!” Fred yells before doing a flip, miming an invisible laser gun. Then he takes a flying leap off the sofa and tackles FP to the floor with a karate yell. “HI-YAH!” 

FP lands on his back, giggling. Fred and Oscar had dragged an old futon beneath the couch for when Fred did flips, and there was nowhere to fall but cushiony fabric. Fred is warm and bony and squirmy on top of him. FP’s heart starts beating really fast. He misses it when Fred wiggles off and leaps back up to his feet. 

“You look like Santa,” Fred laughs, tugging the bottom of FP’s red hat. Then he yanks a pretend badge out of his sweater pocket and waves it at FP. “Hold up, Santa! You’re under arrest for driving reindeer without a license.” 

“Arrest me and you’re on the naughty list,” FP taunts back. Fred starts chasing him and he runs as fast as he can, climbing up onto the arm of the big chair they sit in to watch TV. They run around and around and around the basement, chasing one another. When Fred finally gets tired, he digs through his toy box and picks up a hard plastic baseball bat for little kids. 

“You be the pitcher, and I’m up at bat,” says Fred, and then hops onto the couch and starts bouncing up and down, putting on his best baseball announcer voice. 

“Fred Andrews steps up to the plate, and he’s looking like a shoo-in for Rookie of the Year, folks, but what’s this?” His voice is out of breath from jumping. “It’s Steel-Arm FP pitching, and it’s the last game of the World Series, too -” 

FP laughs and throws the pitch. Fred swings the kiddy bat and connects. 

_Ping!_ The ball flies across the basement and thwacks off an old family photo. 

_Ping!_ The ball ricochets off the heating duct and thumps into the floor. 

_Ping!_ The ball skitters across the bookshelf and lands on a beanbag chair. 

When FP’s arm gets tired they huddle under the air hockey table and pretend they’re trenchmates in the war. The air hockey table was Fred and Oscar’s gift last Christmas: Artie had to put it on layaway at Walmart for months and months. When the table is switched on it makes humming noises, and you can feel the puffs of air rising up from the surface to tickle your hand. But right now it’s off. FP is on the night guard, and Fred is pretending to sleep. FP has his hair tucked under one of Artie’s old caps that Fred uses for dress-up. He looks left and right, looking for enemy soldiers. Fred is lying very still, his smooth face turned up to the ceiling. Before he can stop himself or think about it too deeply, FP leans down and kisses him on the forehead. 

Fred’s eyes pop open right away. “What was THAT?” he exclaims, his pupils as round as the moon. 

“Soldiers always kiss each other when they die,” FP replies defensively. “It’s in the movies.” 

“I wasn’t dead, I was sleeping!” Fred protests. Still, he bounces out from under the table with the light of a new game in his eyes.“Okay, but now pretend I’m dead and do it again with a proper burial.” 

FP rolls Fred up in a big blanket. Then he takes off the cap he’d been wearing and holds it over his heart. He delivers a big speech about what a good soldier Fred was and how much he’ll be missed. He can hear Fred’s muffled giggles coming from inside the blanket the whole time. Finally, he bends down and uncovers Fred’s face. Kneeling with one knee on either side of Fred, he kisses him on the forehead and both the cheeks. 

“RAAAA!” bellows Fred, sitting up abruptly and taking a big pretend bite of FP’s neck. “Zombie attack!” FP screams and tries to run away, but has to circle back to help Fred unroll himself from the blanket. Fred wrestles him to the futon again and presses his mouth against FP’s ear. 

_ “A-hem.” _

FP whirls around at the sound of someone clearing their throat, and he and Fred jump guiltily apart. But Oscar, standing at the bottom of the basement stairs, doesn’t look suspicious or mad. He just rolls his eyes. Fred and Oscar are only five years apart, but Oscar says sometimes it feels more like five decades. 

“You two are sooooo weird,” he says. 

“Takes one to know one,” Fred taunts back. FP nibbles his thumbnail out of nervousness. “Whadda want, Ozzie?” 

Oscar slouches. “I was making a snow fort, if you want to help,” he offers. “But since you don’t-” 

Fred streaks up the stairs quick as a cat, with FP hot on his heels. 

* * *

No one makes a snow fort like the Andrews boys. Kids come out from all over the neighbourhood to stare enviously at it. First, Oscar makes Fred and FP roll big snowballs for the walls. Then he helps them lift the boulders on top of each other, so each wall is at least two snowballs high. Then they pack in the cracks and shape a castle wall, with turrets. Finally, they plant big sticks upright in the boulders and dump cold water over the whole thing so it freezes into ice. 

“Oscar, tell us about the kid who died,” Fred begs once they’re scrunched down behind the wall. FP’s feet are warm and dry in his new boots. 

“No way. I’m not telling that story. You’ll have nightmares.” 

“Pleeeeeeease,” Fred wheedles. “Please please _ please. _ FP doesn’t know it.” 

Oscar sighs, though he’s obviously delighted. “Well… when I was your age, there was this kid, uh.. Donny Osmond. He built an igloo just like this one, but with a roof that went all the way across. One night he decided to spend the night out there, so he climbed in with his pillow and blanket in the middle of the night. Then the roof caved in and suffocated him.” Oscar puts on a spooky voice. “They didn’t find him until the thaw, and his parents just thought he ran away. They covered all the windows in their house with black curtains, and they had a mourning wreath on their door for ages and ages.” 

“There was no such kid,” Fred pipes up. “You’re full of S-H-I-T-E, Ozzy.” 

Oscar whaps him with a mitten full of snow. “Are you calling me a liar?” 

“Liar!” screeches Fred and starts scooping up snowballs and pummelling his brother with them. FP joins in, and they throw snowballs at one another across the wall, Fred and FP teaming up against Oscar until they’re all tired and cold and dripping with sweat. FP’s feet feel hot and heavy in his boots, but his socks are as dry as a bone. 

Artie’s Buick pulls up as they’re fighting, and he makes hot cocoa with peppermint sticks for all of the boys when they finally troop back in the front door, wiping their feet on the mat. FP is shy around Artie, but Artie seems to be in a good mood, and treats him like FP’s one of his own sons. Artie sits down in his chair by the Christmas tree and puffs on a cigar. 

“Dad?” asks Fred, once Oscar has slurped down his hot chocolate and dashed upstairs, out of earshot. He hesitates, his voice hushed and quiet. He glances at FP. “Santa’s real, right?” 

FP crosses his fingers. 

“Of course he is,” says Artie knowledgeably, without missing a beat, “I’ve met him myself.” Then he goes back to sucking contentedly on his cigar, and that was that. FP felt himself doubting his own father’s confident disdain. If Artie Andrews said something was true, who could argue with him? 

Bunny and Linda come home with a trunk full of shopping and three Segarini’s Pizza boxes between them. FP’s mouth waters at all the smells. Artie has a frown on his face, but Bunny wags her finger at him. 

“You get Christmas Eve Dinner tomorrow, and Christmas Day Dinner the next. I don’t want to hear a word out of you. This is for the kids.” 

Fred and Oscar scarf down four pieces each and war over the extra one. In front of FP’s astonished eyes, Bunny picks it up and plunks it down in front of FP’s spot. 

“FP needs to bulk up,” she announces, as though it’s the most normal thing in the world. FP likes that. Bulk up, like a wrestler. 

They watch  _ A Charlie Brown Christmas _ as he’s munching on the last piece of pizza. He eats so much that his belly is sore. The main character is a boy named Charlie Brown, and Christmas makes him sad. 

_ That’s me _ , thinks FP, licking cheese and sauce off of his fingers. _ I don’t know what Christmas is all about.  _

When the movie is done, Fred’s family starts telling stories about their own Christmas pageants. Bunny sits next to Linda and tells them the story of how Fred was in the Christmas pageant every year as a shepherd. The other boys in their church liked being a shepherd, because they got to hit one another with the canes. But Fred moaned and groaned so much about being a shepherd every year that one year they finally let him be the angel Gabriel, and he ran all around the church screaming that Jesus was coming. Then he hopped up on the pew and sang  _ What Child Is This? _ and  _ We Three Kings _ at the top of his lungs. Fred is what Linda calls a born ham. 

Everyone laughs at the story, even FP. Instead of being mad about being laughed at, Fred decides to do an encore performance. He stands up on the piano bench next to the tree and spreads his arms wide and starts to sing. “What child is this who laid to rest,” in a big bellowing voice. FP claps until his hands hurt, but Fred doesn’t stop until he’s well into the third verse. FP watches him with stars in his eyes. 

“So bring him incest, gold and myrrh-” 

“ _ Incense,  _ dummy, not incest,” corrects Fred’s long-suffering older brother. Fred finally stops to stick his tongue out. 

“I know you are, but what am I?” Then he just keeps singing. 

“Don’t laugh too hard,” Bunny warns Oscar. “When you played the baby Jesus you wet your diaper in front of the whole church.” 

That shuts Oscar up for awhile. 

* * *

Linda goes out after dinner and drives around in their old car. FP sits by the window and waits for her to come back. The inside of the house is warm, but the windowpane is cold. He traces the snowflakes that fall past with the tip of his finger. 

“Come play with us, FP,” Fred invites him. He and Artie and Oscar are playing dominos on the rug. But FP shakes his head. He wants to be there when his Ma comes back. 

FP leans his head against the window and thinks about the letter he’d written. Suppose Santa was reading it right now. Santa brought rich kids more stuff than poor kids, he knew that. But a toboggan didn’t cost too much. And Santa should know he already had the boots. Santa had  _ noticed him _ , in the parade. So he must know everything. He must be planning on bringing FP something. 

One year, before he knew Fred, his Ma had looked at him funny and said “I don’t think Santa’s coming this year,” and she had been right - all FP had had in his Christmas stocking was a lumpy apple and hard candy. FP had been hungry that year, all the time, and Ma took her needles a lot. But Santa had always come since, even if he didn’t bring very much. FP thought maybe he hadn’t known where to find him, because that year they moved around a lot. He could worry about that this year, too, only he’d written Fred’s address on the envelope in big letters. So Santa wasn’t likely to get lost. 

The funny thing was, he didn’t really care if he got a toboggan or not. He just wanted to be able to stay at Fred’s for Christmas. FP bows his head quick and clasps his hands together and says a little prayer, just in case Santa can hear his thoughts. Something like: _ Dear Santa, if you can hear me, I don’t need a toboggan or boots or anything as long as you let me stay with Fred and Bunny and Ma and even Artie and Oscar.  _

He knows it’s stupid: if he’d seen someone else do it he would have called them stupid. But secretly, way down in his chest, he can’t think of a reason why Santa wouldn’t have heard. 

Ma doesn’t come back, so he gives in and plays a round of dominos. After a few minutes, his eyes are closing and his head keeps sagging down toward the rug. Just when he’s about to ask Fred if they can go to bed, he hears the rattle of Ma’s car in the driveway. FP jumps up, suddenly wide awake. 

Linda walks in with her coat pulled tight around her and stops to talk to Bunny in the hallway. He can hear their hushed, tired, adult voices before Linda walks past her into the living room, still in her coat and hat. 

“C’mere Bug,” Ma says and picks FP up off his feet to hold him tight against her chest. “Mrs. Andrews says you’re falling asleep.” 

She carries him upstairs to the Andrews’ spare room, which is a small bed tucked in a room that used to be an office. Ma puts FP down on the bed. Her bruise has changed colours: it’s lighter purple, dusted with red and blue. She kneels in front of the bed so they’re the same height.

“Let’s get your pyjamas on,” she says, and fumbles with the buttons of FP’s shirt. FP’s old enough to dress and undress himself, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“Are we going to stay at Fred’s for Christmas?” It comes out all in a rush. 

Linda wets her lips and smooths her hands on her knees. “We’re going to have a big dinner with them, no matter what. And Mrs. Andrews invited us both to church tomorrow. Everyone’s welcome at church.” 

FP reads between the lines. “We’re leaving?” He starts shaking, like he had the night Senior stomped on the ViewMaster. This hurts even more, somehow. He feels a big sob building in his chest. 

Linda shakes her head. “Not tonight. And we’ll still be so close, Bug. There are some places we can stay in, called women’s shelters. And some of them have playgrounds, and slides, and-” 

FP shakes his head back and forth. No, no, no, no, no. 

“Or, we can go to Grandma’s house,” says Linda in defeat. “It’s a long drive, but we can do it. Maybe we’ll have a Christmas miracle.” She sounds like she’s trying to convince herself. 

“Why can’t we stay here?” 

“Christmas is a time for families to be together.” She keeps squeezing and pressing FP’s hands, turning them over and over in her own warm ones. “The Andrewses probably want to be all together as a family, and I don’t want to ruin that.” 

“Fred always says we’re like family. Like brothers.” He feels a twinge of regret even as he says it. He doesn’t want Ma to think he’d rather be Fred’s brother than her baby. He’s starting to think he doesn’t even want to be Fred’s brother at all. Still, he feels the tears rising, his words tripping over each other. “How’s Santa going to find us?” 

“Santa knows where you are. He’s magic, right?” 

FP swallows hard, his voice steadying. “If Christmas is a time for families to be together, why aren’t we with Pop?” 

Linda looks at him. “Do you want to be?” she says seriously. 

FP shakes his head very fast  _ no _ , back and forth. Linda nods and puts her hand on the back of his head, stroking his hair. She leans in and presses their foreheads together. 

FP starts to blubber. He can’t help it. Big fat tears spill over his eyes and run down his cheeks. The thought of leaving the Andrews house makes his insides want to shake apart. He clutches his Ma’s shirt and sobs. 

The door creaks open as he’s crying, and Bunny pokes her head in. 

“There’s chocolate shortbread on the table when you two want some,” Bunny says. She catches sight of FP’s tear-stained face. “FP, honey, what’s the matter?” 

“I want to stay here for Christmas,” FP chokes, his nose running. He gives a hearty sniff and wipes it on the back of his hand. Linda pulls her face away and looks down at the floor, her hair hanging like a curtain again. 

“Then stay!” Bunny exclaims, as though that settles it. “Goodness knows Fred doesn’t mind sharing. Our house is your house. You too, Linda.” Bunny extends a hand to the other woman to help her up off the floor. After a moment, Linda takes it. “Come get some shortbread before my husband eats it all.” 

* * *

Fred’s bedroom has red and green plaid sheets, that are soft like fuzzy pyjamas. FP burrows down in them, nice and tight and snug. Linda sits on the edge of the bed and kisses him on the forehead. 

“I love you very much,” she says. Then she kisses Fred on the forehead, cuddled up next to FP with Flops in his arms. “I love you very much too.” 

Bunny comes in when Linda leaves, bending over them to say goodnight. “Good night, sleep tight,” she says to FP, and kisses him on the cheek. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” she says to Fred, and kisses him on the other cheek. She even kisses Flops on the head, even though he smells like peanut butter. 

Artie comes up last. He doesn’t say “I love you,” or kiss either of them. He hovers by the lightswitch with his hand on the doorframe. 

“Door open or shut?” Artie asks. 

“Shut!” Hollers Fred cheerfully, and FP realizes with a start that they had said _ I love you _ to each other somehow, without words. Artie smiles.

“Goodnight, Fred,” says Artie. 

“Night, Papa.” 

“Goodnight, FP.” 

FP is startled, and hadn’t had a reply ready. “Night,” he croaks out. 

Artie closes the door, enclosing them both in silence and dark. Through Fred’s thin blue curtains, the Christmas lights up and down the street emit a warm, toasty glow. Fred wiggles imperceptibly closer to FP on the mattress, until their legs are pressed warm and cozy against one another. 

“Night, FP,” says Fred. “Two more sleeps until Christmas, you know.” 

FP nods, pressing his face into the soft flannel pillowcase. 

“You realize we got two sleepovers in a row,” says Fred, enthused. “How cool is that? My parents never let me do that.” 

FP feels bold. He darts forward and kisses Fred on the cheek, the way Fred’s Ma had kissed them both. It’s dark, and he bumps his forehead into Fred’s cheekbone a little, but not hard enough to hurt. “Goodnight, Fred,” he whispers. He tries to say _ I love you very much  _ without saying it. 

Fred grabs him in a hug and kisses him back. He doesn’t even try to aim, or maybe he is trying, because the kiss lands sloppily right on the corner of FP’s mouth. Flops is crushed between their two chests. FP’s heart skips a beat and a half. “I love you very much,” Fred murmurs, like he’d read FP’s mind. 

They’re still lying like that, chest-to-chest, whispering to each other when FP falls asleep. 


End file.
